


Diminished

by leatherandlightning (floatawaysomedays)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hunter!Cas, angel!Sam, angel!dean, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:53:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/leatherandlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fine.” He starts to get out of bed. Castiel takes two quick steps back, and the man tries to wrap the sheet around himself, shivering, before throwing it back to the bed in frustration. He advances. He’s only wearing the shorts he had on. The suit is drying in the car. He holds his arms out wide, lifts his chin with fake pride. “Dean, former angel of the very absent Lord.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diminished

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [spn_reversebang](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/).
> 
> and don't forget to go check out the absolutely gorgeous art by zerda-vulpes [here](http://zerda-vulpes.deviantart.com/art/SPN-reverse-big-bang-reverse-verse-429043122)!!

Dean knows what he’s supposed to be doing.

 

He has orders straight from Michael himself. The cupid assigned to this job is watching him silently, waiting for instruction and guidance. He also knows that if this couple ends up together -end up in love and married with children- the world will fall into shadow or be raised into light.

 

So, yes, Dean knows what he is supposed to be doing. He’s familiar with the grand plan.

 

But he can’t go through with it.

 

The pair are making eyes at each other. The girl is smiling, and the boy seems interested. It wouldn’t take much persuasion.

 

Dean tells the cupid that his services aren’t needed, and that he may, if he wishes, return to Heaven.

 

_

  
  


Castiel Novak has been alone for a very, very long time.

 

He’s used to it, by now.

 

The silence doesn’t bother him like it did ten years ago. He goes days, even weeks sometimes, without speaking. He only pulls his words out when he needs them the most. During cases or interviews where gestures and hand signals aren’t adequate, Castiel digs inside of himself until it croaks out of him; hoarse and cracked.

 

His brother’s tapes are locked tight in the glovebox. Castiel listens to the rumble of the engine and the rain against his windshield and the rush of cars in the opposite direction.

 

He drives and he hunts and sometimes -very rarely, and very lightly- he sleeps. His life has turned into a never-ending, unbroken circle. The motions are the same. The curves and the downward spiral is the same as the upward spin.

 

And so it goes.

 

He’s out driving, when it happens.

 

It’s raining and dark. It’s also late, probably midnight when the first ones start the tremendous fall to Earth. They’re huge, and at first Castiel mistakes them for meteors, or space junk. It’s been known to happen, pieces of machinery or debris falling from the sky unbidden into someone’s path. After the first few fall somewhere to the north, he pulls over on the deserted back road and climbs out of his car. It’s isn’t raining, yet, and the dirt under his boots kicks up.

 

The night sky is lit up in brilliant yellows and reds, and then it flashes in less than an instant. The colors fade and reignite to pinks and purples as something else is cast down, cast out of the sky. Lightning cracks in strange, unnatural colors, and Castiel finds himself resigned to the fact that this event is monumental and ground-shaking. Thunder doesn’t roll, it explodes like dynamite in every direction when the somethings touch down.

 

Castiel never believed in aliens, but he’s having some serious thoughts about E.T and close encounters. He’s paralyzed, all he can do is stand, and stare.

 

One brief flash is particularly bright. Hunter green and burning gold flare together and then there is a star falling not twenty feet from Castiel.

 

Except.. except this star looks very much like a man with wings. Wings that are rapidly disintegrating into nothing. Into ash.

 

The force from it knocks Castiel on his ass. He hits his head against the driver’s side door, and rolls onto hands and knees carefully.

 

The ground, twenty feet away, is upturned and smoking. Spits of sparks are flying everywhere; green and gold and dying.

 

Castiel has not been this curious in a very, very long time.

 

The hole the man is lying in is shallow and dark. His suit is blackened and dirty. Castiel leans over the dirt and the rocks and a shower of sparks lights up the man’s face. He catches a glimpse of something beautiful. Freckles and a strong jaw and green eyes looking back at him.

 

“Castiel Novak,”

 

The voice is human and just barely above a whisper, but it’s saying his name with authority, and Castiel wants to back away from the hole faster than he approached. The man, the thing, knows his name. He’s been a hunter for years and that sort of instant, accurate knowledge is filed under Not Good. His car is close. He should walk away. He should get in his car and drive like he should have ten minutes ago. He will forget this is happening until it becomes a phone call and a hunt and his problem. He will forget that he left his gun and the knife in the passenger’s seat until it’s too late. He’s always been so careful. Look where it landed him. Look at where it landed his brother.

 

He is tired of being cautious.

 

Castiel climbs in and kneels, but he isn’t being watched. Green eyes are tilted up, up. up, towards the sky. His hands are shaking as he reaches. He’s gritting his teeth. It’s still raining, but Castiel believes the man is crying.

 

He doesn’t know what to make of it. He let’s the man cup his face and bring their faces together. It should feel… strange, but it doesn’t. The only jarring piece of the moment is the sobs ripped from the other man’s throat. His face clenched in pain.

 

Castiel can’t stop staring.

 

The sky lights up above them, and fingers tighten in his shirt.

 

“It hurts.” He whispers. “I knew it wouldn’t be pleasant, but for heaven’s sake, it fucking hurts.”

 

“What hurts?” Castiel leans back touching his shoulder now, eager for information. His voice sounds like metal grating on pavement. It’s rusty. It doesn’t even occur to him that he hasn’t spoken to a soul in over a month. Pointing to menus and nodding at desk clerks and writing things in the little notepad he carries in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He forces the words out. “What’s happening? Who are you?”

 

The man smiles, sadly, his hair is plastered to his head. He’s soaked. He pulls Castiel to his chest and rolls them so he’s shielding him against the grass.

 

Castiel has not been this close to another person in a very, very long time. He barely has time to relish it, to enjoy the feeling of a body pressed against his. Pressing him into the dirt and the rock and the grass of the field. Something incredibly warm and safe and tender blanketing him, protecting him.

 

The sky goes supernova for a fraction of a second. There is no noise, only lack of noise. There is no color, only lack of it. It feels like they’re sucked into a vacuum, and then, as soon as it began, it’s over. The world rushes in on itself, and the hush that follows is almost serene.

 

The man glances up, and then slumps down again. His right hand is still fisted in Castiel’s trenchcoat.  

 

It is the sight of him, soaked and clinging, that breaks Castiel’s resolve into a million pieces.The thought of what he would do spurs him to carry the man away from the field, head tucked under Castiel’s chin. The hunter whispers this is a good idea, a good plan, this man knows what is happening. He will be useful.

 

The lonely man that’s never felt warmth and tenderness roll over him in waves like that before shakes his head and turns the engine over.

 

_

  
  


Falling asleep is unintentional.

 

He wakes up in the hard kitchen chair to white noise and static. He frowns when the fire alarm goes off and quickly takes the batteries out so no one from the front desk starts to question their presence.

 

The man appears to be dreaming.

 

His face is scrunched up in either pain or discomfort, and he’s making small noises of distress in another language. It’s guttural and rough and it sounds like he is begging. The man’s fingers are fisted in the sheets and his knuckles go white suddenly.

 

The lightbulb in the living area shatters.

 

“Hey,” Castiel grabs his shoulder, unsure and uneasy, and barely shakes him. His eyelids flicker, but they don’t open. Castiel tries again, with more force. “It’s okay, wake up.”

 

He’s shocked when green eyes finally open, surprised even, and Castiel breaks contact with the man immediately. He sits up in bed and looks around the room with wide eyes. His chest heaves once, twice, and then he stills somewhat.

 

“Where am I?” He glances down at himself and tilts his head. His lips quirk up, holding back a smile as his eyes grab and latch on to Castiel. “Where the hell are my clothes.”

 

Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. “Room seventeen, Laneview Motel. I’ll return your clothes after a full explanation of who you are and why it was raining men and women last night.”

 

He runs a hand through his hair. “Taking a guy’s clothes while he’s unconscious after he saved your life, that’s pretty low, Cas.”

 

Castiel shrugs. It is what it is. It’s the only bargaining chip he has at this point. He’s already tried holy water and salt and iron, the whole nine. The man is something, but what he is, Castiel isn’t sure. Threatening him would be pointless without understanding what could harm him.

 

The man can see the handgun on the kitchen table just as easily as Castiel can.

 

“You won’t believe me.”

 

“Try me.”

 

“Fine.” He starts to get out of bed. Castiel takes two quick steps back, and the man tries to wrap the sheet around him, shivering, before throwing it back to the bed in frustration. He advances. He’s only wearing the shorts he had on. The suit is drying in the car. He holds his arms out wide, lifts his chin with fake pride. “Dean, former angel of the very absent Lord.”

 

The only sound in the room is the static coming from the TV, and Dean waves a hand to cut that off with a flick of his wrist and a small sigh.

 

“Angels.” Castiel’s voice is flat. Toneless even. He’s learned of a lot of real things in this world. Vampires and werewolves and rugaroos and demons. Castiel has fought all of these and more. His view of real versus not real changes on a daily basis.  He’s adapted a ‘take it as it comes’ attitude.

 

But… angels? That’s a stretch.

 

“Yep.”

 

“So last night was…?” Castiel doesn’t really have any ideas. The only thing he can remember from the bible about angels and falling leads him straight to Lucifer.

 

“Metatron.” Dean growls low in his throat, his hands curl into fists at his sides. “That selfish dick. Stole some poor kid’s Grace and completed a spell to cast us all to Earth. Except for him.”

 

There are so many questions in that one statement. Grace? Who is Metatron, another angel? What kind of spell? He focuses on the immediate one, assuming it’s the most pressing. “How many is ‘all’?”

 

He deflates, instantly. The anger is replaced by grief and loss. “Thousands, maybe more.”

 

Castiel takes that in. Thousands of angels on Earth. If he was talking to anyone else, he would have called them crazy ten minutes ago. But there’s a somberness to everything Dean has said and Cas has interviewed enough good liars to know when someone is trying to pull the wool over his eyes.

 

He’s making plans in his head. Lists of people to call. If he gets the network together, maybe they can, what, round them all up? And then what?

 

Dean’s stomach interrupts his thoughts. Dean frowns at it like it could be a serious problem.

 

“It doesn’t usually do that.”

 

“Angels don’t eat?”

 

“Oh, I can eat.” Dean assures him, confidently. “I just don’t usually need to.”

 

_

  
  


There’s a diner not too far from the motel. Cas knows because he ate dinner there last night before heading for a drive and it was par for the course. The food was warm and the coffee was strong. What more could he ask for?

 

Dean is fascinated by everything on their trip through town, except the car. He hates the idea of being trapped in a metal box, at first. He balks when Castiel informs him that he survived half an hour in it last night just fine. He hates the music until he turns on a classic rock station and discovers Led Zeppelin for the first time, and then he’s quiet for the rest of the drive. Contemplative.

 

Dean looks at the menu as if there will be a test on the contents after they leave. Castiel barely even glances at it. He’s too busy watching the world go by outside the diner. People passing each other on the sidewalk without a care in the world. The only mention of the ‘disaster’ was on the news this morning.

 

Everyone has chalked it up to some sort of rare event, and moved on with their lives and yet Castiel is sitting opposite an angel that’s wearing his clothes. An old pair of jeans, ripped in the left knee. His sleeves are rolled up, and his face looks pinched.

 

And after all of that, the studying and the strange looks, he doesn’t even order his own meal, he just listens to what Cas orders. Says, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

 

They’re quiet until the meal actually arrives. When it does, Dean digs in, carefully. They eat together in relative silence. The background noise from the diner keeps it from becoming awkward. Dean seems to enjoy his meal. He pushes the plate aside and folds his hands on the table. His soda sits untouched.

 

“It seems you need to eat.”

 

“Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

 

Castiel is almost afraid to ask, but there’s a mantra in the back of his head that begins with thousands and ends with angels.

 

And he wants to know.

 

“Are you still..?” Castiel trails off, because he doesn’t know enough about angels to even know what to ask. Is he still an angel? Is he fallen? It’s like he’s searching for a light switch in the dark in an unfamiliar room. Where does he even begin?

 

Dean rubs at his chest. “Sort of. I mean I can still feel my Grace knocking around in there, but it’s like somebody put my light under a bushel and clipped my wings, you know?”

 

“You have wings.” Castiel says flatly. He had almost convinced himself that they were a trick of the light last night. That he had imagined them burning up into nothing. He wonders how Dean conceals them. If they will ever heal.

 

Dean looks a little taken aback. “They’re wrecked right now, but yeah. Every angel has wings.” He rubs at the curve of his shoulder with the palm of his hand and then gestures at Cas. “So, when are you gonna tell me about your hunt.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Dude. I might be diminished but, seriously,” Dean smirks, waves a hand. “Angel.”

 

Castiel regards him silently for a moment and finally nods.

 

_

  
  


They work together for three days, only to discover that the murders taking place in the small town are being committed by a group of regular serial killers.

 

Humans.

 

Castiel calls in an anonymous tip in to the police, and they pack their things.

 

Well, more like Castiel packs his things, and Dean puts his toothbrush -green and fresh out of the package- and his clothes -new, soft pajama pants, a pair of jeans and a pack of t-shirts- in the duffel.

 

Having someone beside him has been.. nice. Almost refreshing, even, if he didn’t feel somewhat crowded by it.  Dean talks enough for both of them, and comes to understand how much Castiel values silence. Dean loves pizza and tacos and all manner of food. He makes bad jokes, but they catch Castiel off guard more than once, and startle a laugh out of him for the first time in years. He appears unfazed when Castiel broaches the subject on showering and shaving. Dean helps hunt and he folds laundry with a smirk on his lips and a spring in his step. He burns so brilliantly as he takes everything in, Castiel is finding it hard to look away.

 

They’re good together.

 

He’s at a loss of where to go, once they’re situated in the car. Dean is looking at him, somewhat expectantly. Waiting for him to say something or start.

 

And when they’ve sat for five minutes in complete silence, the sun shining against the windshield. Dean finally speaks up. Speaks out.

 

“I have a brother.”

 

It’s the first time he’s spoken of the Fall since that first day in the diner. Castiel hasn’t pressed, but he’s been … curious. Hungry for news.

 

The mention of a brother makes Castiel ache for the tapes, and the backpack carefully pushed to the back of the trunk.

 

Deans fingers tighten and twist around the fabric of his jeans. His expression settles into something like determination. “I have lots of ‘em, but there’s really only one that matters.

 

There’s only one I’d like to see again.”

 

Castiel turns the ignition over.

 

_

 

It is another five days before Dean comes to a dead stop in the middle of a busy sidewalk, and Castiel barges into him. Someone knocks into Dean’s shoulder, frowns, and yells at him to watch it. Dean isn’t listening, he’s staring at a point somewhere across the street to an alleyway, eyes wide. There is only one word on his lips.

 

“Sam.”

 

_

  
  


Dean’s brother is filthy when they find him. It doesn’t stop Dean from catching him in his arms and pulling him close, close, closer.

 

Sam seems awkward about the hug, at first. He doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands or his arms, resting them first against the back of Dean’s head and then getting a better feel for it. They embrace for a few moments, maybe more. Dean is the one that breaks away and passes a hand over his mouth. Beckoning Sam, bloody and bruised, to the car. To the back seat.

 

And just like that, their party of two is now three.

 

_

  
  


Castiel finds that he likes Sam almost as much as he likes Dean.

 

Sam is knowledgeable about so many things. He’s like a fountain, overflowing and bubbling with new sources. He babbles about everything. About the history of the basil used in their meals and the material of his new shirts. Dean just shakes his head fondly. Like he’s used to his little brother being interested in herbs and plaid.

 

And so it comes to pass that one night when Dean is out picking up dinner (he’s learning to drive, but hasn’t earned car privileges quite yet), Castiel learns something new. Something about Dean.

 

“Castiel Novak, the Righteous Man that never was to an Apocalypse that never came to be.” His voice shakes a little, but he’s on the verge of grinning. “Never thought I’d actually get to meet the guy Dean punched Michael in the face for. But, you know what they say.” Sam smiles ruefully and cocks his head. “He works in mysterious ways.”

 

Castiel feels terribly adrift, and after a few moments he can’t help himself. He gives in. “What are you talking about.”

 

Sam’s grin contorts into something that looks like confusion. “Dean didn’t tell you?”

 

Castiel shakes his head.

 

“Of course not.” Sam sighs. “Dean made a decision, about forty years ago, give or take. He was given a direct order from our superiors. From an Archangel. And he didn’t follow through.”

 

It doesn’t sound like Dean, but maybe there was a reason. With Dean, there usually is. “Why not?”

 

“Because if he had listened to Michael, there would have been an Apocalypse.”

 

Castiel sits back in his chair. “You can’t be serious.”

 

“It was just this one tiny thing needed to happen, and Dean went to the future to scope it out and decided it wasn’t worth it. He came back, and sat on the edge of Heaven for weeks. You-” Sam laughs halfheartedly and looks away. “It would have been in your bloodline. You were supposed to go to Hell and break.  We - the angels - would have rescued you. You were destined to be his vessel ,and Michael would have convinced you to say ‘yes’. Dean didn’t want this,” Sam gestures to the room and, seemingly, all of humanity. “To end, so he took matters into his own hands, and now we’re all..”

 

A thousand things flit across his face. Human. Broken. Lost. “Here.” Castiel says quietly.

 

“Yeah.”

 

_

  
  


“Why did you do it.”

 

There’s only one bed in the motel room, that’s all that had been left, and Dean is sitting against the headboard, ankles crossed, watching TV. He still has his boots on, and he’s getting dirt all over the bedspread. Castiel’s been watching him for an hour, and trying to puzzle it all out.

 

“I do a lot of things, you’ll have to be more specific.”

 

“Why did you let the cupid go.”

 

Dean looks up away from the TV, and narrows his eyes at Castiel. “Sam told you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Dean sighs, and moves across the space between them. His hands are clenched into fists, but the fingers of his right hand uncurl and relax a little. “You want to know why?”

 

Castiel nods.

 

“This might suck.” Dean reaches out to cup Castiel’s cheek, and smiles ruefully. “Close your eyes.”

 

It feels like a tidal wave when he does. Castiel drowns in sensation, and yet the feeling of nothing at all. There are voices, mostly in his head, that are singing some other language.

 

Then the world starts to settle, and he can focus on what’s happening. It’s like a movie is being played behind his eyelids from Dean’s perspective, and someone has their finger on the fast forward button. Someone is skipping entire centuries. Castiel watches the rise and fall of empires and he listens to the voices. He watches Dean move from place to place as he follows his orders and plays catch up with Sam. He watches the world grow.

 

And then everything slows down.

 

Dean is standing near a playground watching a six year old Castiel help his little brother on the slide. Dean smiles when Castiel kills his first monster at twelve, and he sits in the passenger’s seat when he takes the car at sixteen and sings along to the radio. He watches Castiel grow into a fierce hunter. A man that puts himself in harm’s way to save lives without blinking. Dean admires the family, in a way.

 

He’s become fond of the little boy with the blue eyes and the dark mop of hair.

 

He’s there when it all turns on it’s head, because this isn’t part of Castiel’s story now. This must be what changed Dean’s mind. This decision, this future. Castiel sells his soul to bring his brother back from the grave, and Dean isn’t far away when Castiel goes to Hell.

 

Dean finally turns away from the bloody mess of Castiel’s life when Michael steps in and takes over to slay Lucifer. When the light in Castiel’s eyes is marked by hopelessness, and then Grace, and the world is swallowed up by paradise.

 

Castiel comes back to himself with a gasp, clinging to Dean’s arm and trying to catch his breath. Dean’s hand is still on his face, thumb stroking slowly over barely-there stubble.

 

“I looked at you,” Dean says quietly, “At your bravery and your strength, and I couldn’t do it. You loved this world so much. You fight for it every single day. And what do angels do?” Dean shakes his head. “We were supposed to be your shepherds. Not your reapers.”

 

“I brought him back.” Castiel whispers. “This whole time..Dean, I could’ve brought him back.”

 

Dean shakes his head. “He’s in Heaven. He’s happy, Cas. Trust me. If you take him away from eternal peace and trade yourself, he’ll never forgive you.”

 

It makes sense, of course it does, but Castiel can’t help the selfish, terrible thing clawing at his chest because he wants his brother back like he’s wanted nothing else. It’s been Hell without him. Alone in the car, and silent. His vision blurs, unexpectedly, and then Dean is wiping at his face with both hands. “Hey, hey. You’ll see him again, okay? I promise.”

 

And it’s the promise of seeing him again that finally does it. Finally breaks what little resolve he had left. Castiel curls his fingers into Dean’s shirt, and closes his eyes.

 

_

  
  


They start collecting angelic contacts like Dean collects candy. Castiel finds numbers and names in the pockets of his favorite jeans next to mint wrappers and something butterscotch colored. He discovers Sam and Dean talking to one of their sisters in a diner and she appears happy waiting tables, but she brightens considerably when they ask if she’d like to return to her position. They mean as hunters - soldiers of a different kind- on Earth. She, obviously, means Heaven.

 

She regards Castiel with disinterest, not even bothering to engage him in conversation. But she nudges Dean before leaving, “This is the guy you went to the racks for? Little plain, isn’t he?”

 

Dean nearly knocks his coffee all over the table as he starts to stand before Sam pushes him back down with one hand on his shoulder. He levels her with a glare until the angel takes the hint and backs off.

 

Castiel doesn’t ask, but it makes him wonder. About Heaven. About the other angels who might not be content to sit in diners and sleep in crappy motel rooms without a purpose or a plan.

 

About Dean.

 

He starts keeping the little slips and scraps of paper, and writing the names down in an actual notebook. A plan, small and not-so-secret, starts to form.

 

“Ellen might have an idea.”

 

“On how to get us home?” Dean replies like he’s been waiting for Cas to bring it up.  “Getting tired of me already?”

 

Castiel shifts in his chair. Words fail him sometimes. He doubts he could ever be tired of Dean, but he worries about the opposite happening. After all, Dean has watched mountains move and skies fall and oceans shrink. Castiel is neither naive, nor stupid. As much as he would like to hold onto the fallen star riding shotgun, he knows it’s not realistic. “You’re both angels. Your home isn’t on Earth, it’s-”

 

“It’s not home up there.” Sam says, and his eyes aren’t on the book in front of him. They’re on Dean. “Hasn’t been for awhile.”

 

It doesn’t sound like blame. It sounds like understanding.

_

  
  


Dean knows what he’s supposed to be doing.

 

Castiel told him with bright eyes and a heavy heart not ten minutes ago to go home, E.T. The Gates are closing as he stands in the silver-gold of Heaven’s light. He also knows that if he starts singing along with the Host at this exact moment he might never see Cas again.

 

So, yes, Dean knows what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s familiar with the plan.

 

But he can’t go through with it.

 

Sam is standing on the other side of the Gates, beside Dean. He’s apparently having the same thoughts, because he steps back and grabs the bars on the East wing, and pulls. Dean grabs the West, and mirrors Sam’s movements until the Gates are sealed in a final flash of light.

 

Castiel is over the safeline, yelling, before the Gate winks out of existence, once and for all.

 

“What are you doing?!” He’s worked so hard to give them a chance to go back. Dean watched him fall asleep slumped over the desk in Ellen’s library more than once. He wondered what it would be like, to fall asleep next to Castiel and wake up to eyes like waves. He’d never wanted anything as fiercely as he’d wanted that moment.

 

Now he’s going to find out.

 

Castiel reaches him and he reaches out. It’s dark, now, careful fingers find the curve of his shoulder and shake. “You were supposed to go.” Castiel whispers, low and unsure.

 

Dean was supposed to do a lot of things. Instead, he leans down, leans in, and presses his nose to Castiel’s hair. He holds on.

 

“I’m not leaving here without you.”


End file.
